


Scenes from a Cabin in Tahiti

by CJS_DEPPendent



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Philinda - Freeform, Post-Season 5, but fair warning, but mostly just fluff, i have challenged myself to keep this fluffy and happy, i shall do my best, there may be some angst, two idiots in love retire to tahiti
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-16 12:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14811801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CJS_DEPPendent/pseuds/CJS_DEPPendent
Summary: Days, maybe weeks - if that was all they could have, then they were going to make the most of it.





	1. Contentment

**Author's Note:**

> I am keeping my Angsty fic ideas for when we've all recovered a bit from the beating our emotions took in the finale. So please enjoy this collection of (mostly) fluffy scenes from our two idiot's life in retirement.

The Zephyr flying overhead felt at once an end and a new beginning; an endless horizon of possibilities before them. Melinda’s hand in his, her head on his shoulder, her presence at his side a much welcome weight as he turned to her, bringing his free hand around her waist as he drew her to him, their hands still entwined at their sides, her cheek on his chest, his chin upon her head.

“You ok?” he felt the rumble of her voice against his chest as the sound of the Zephyr dissipated above them, their team – their family – gone, as she turned her face up to his.

“I am,” he confirmed with a soft nod, a smile more content than she remembered seeing for a long time gracing his features, crinkling the lines at the corner of the eyes she couldn’t quite see through his sunglasses.

Her free hand, held between her chest and his, made its way to his throat, his jaw – that muscle that gave his emotions away every time twitching under her fingers – brushing through the hair at his temple, settling loosely at the nape of his neck.

“Thank you,” he sighed, his head slowly coming into contact with hers, forehead against forehead. He heard the soft exhale more than saw her gentle smile as her hand toyed with the hair at the back of his head.

He didn’t have to clarify. She understood.

Leaning forward, slowly, she pressed her lips to his, the hand at her waist twitching as the one at his neck raked softly through his hair. It wasn’t kissing-under-a-hale-of-bullets-passionate as their first kiss on the Remorath ship had been, and it wasn’t Fitz-just-died life-affirming like their last desperate moment alone in her bunk had been what seemed like an eternity ago. It was lazy, and soft, his lips parting only enough to capture her bottom lip between them, then hers mimicking his movement. The softest, slowest, tenderest, tug of war.

Their sunglasses still on, neither saw the desire in the other’s eyes as the kiss slowed and they each pulled back, but the air had grown thick around them, breaths becoming fractionally faster with each swipe of lips on lips, soft, shallow exhales becoming shorter; faster.

Pulling away as her hand drifted from his head to his cheek, Phil turned to her touch, his lips landing on her palm.

“You said you wanted to take a walk?” May asked, her voice huskier than she’d expected it to be.

“I—“ his voice too, was hoarse, and he took a moment to swallow the tension behind his Adam’s apple. He nodded, an almost sheepish smile tweaking the corner of his mouth as he looked away from her, embarrassed by how obviously his voice betrayed him.

Something in her chest swelled with affection at his embarrassment – how she loved him.

“Yes,” he nodded, her hand still clasped in his as he took a step back from her, the distance giving him enough clarity to think. “We’ll be here a while,” he shrugged, “probably best to get the lay of the land, get some supplies—“

“Recon?” she supplied, amused, it would take them both a while to completely switch off, to accept that this wasn’t a mission, that there were no threats looming behind the palm trees; beneath each upturned fishing boat scattered on the beach.

He offered her a timid shrug in response, his left cheek raising in a half smile, acquiescing the point she hadn’t made out loud, “we also need food,” he offered, almost as a question.

Smirking up at him, Melinda squeezed his hand where their fingers remained laced together, “lead the way,” she gestured with her free hand to the expanse of sand stretching out before them.

And his hand never releasing hers, he did, as they walked in companionable silence towards the small town beyond the palm trees.


	2. Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All they want to be is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of my meeting Ming Na Wen a year ago today, have another fluffy chapter of our idiots in their retirement.

He kept her hand, their fingers entwined, within his as they walked along the tree line towards the small town, a single street lined with colonial buildings, two stories at most, palm trees looming up from behind the buildings on both sides.

It was the most ordinary thing they’d done in years – walk into a grocery store and buy food. The store was small, fruit in crates outside, two isles, one fridge where Coulson reached up for the butter and a carton of milk that May couldn’t quite reach.

Life was simpler now, or he hoped it would be. If he could spend the rest of his days with Melinda’s hand in his, walking into town to buy fresh milk and the ripest mangoes he’d ever seen, he’d be happy.

And that’s all he wanted to be for however long he had left: happy.

The almost-transparent red plastic bag hung from his free hand as he and Melinda made their way back out onto the street, the sun hitting their eyes as they both drew the sunglasses from where they sat, perched on their respective heads, back to their faces. It was silly, really, but every time the prospect of returning to the cabin crept up, they both became a little unsteady.

May’s heart beat a little faster.

Phil’s hand sweated a little more than the temperature would justify.

“I think I saw a store selling records back there,” May spoke, looking up at his face, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she recognized the same nervousness in him that she was feeling.

They’d realized, upon entering the cabin Daisy had found for them, forging the deed and putting it in their names – well, Charles and Heidi’s names – that there was no television, and no wifi. Phil wouldn’t even need to throw his phone in the ocean as the reception was sketchy at best in town, and non-existent outside that one street. The Sat-Phone was locked away, out of sight and out of mind until it was needed, and the only piece of technology – if you could call it that – was a dusty record player in the corner of the living room. May knew Phil liked his things old-school: watch bombs, cigarette-lasers, and vinyl records.

And a little music never hurt.

Smiling, Phil nodded for her to lead the way – it wasn’t that he wanted to delay being alone with her, but at the same time, he didn’t want to rush things. Neither of them did. Somehow beating a hasty retreat to their beach cabin to ‘parasail’ – as May had put it – all afternoon didn’t quite feel right, he wanted something _more_. And from the way she squeezed his hand and led him to the antique store further down the road, he understood she did too.

This thing between them, it was new, and it was as old as their friendship, and it was _precious_ , and neither wanted to rush.

They had time.

* * *

 The antique store was dusty, and there was a faint smell of cigar in the air, smoke floating up from the abandoned cigar in the ashtray on the counter – the sounds of the cashier stacking shelves, audible through the open door to the back.

The walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves, some stacked high with books, worn covers, scruffy spines, dog-eared pages visible in their haphazard organization, others held objects from owners past: opera glasses, scales, pens, jewelry, old pharmacy bottles – everything and anything.

As Phil knelt by the boxes of records to the left of the door, Melinda perused the shelves, the dust floating up around her every time she touched a spine or pulled out a worn volume to read the blurb.

Phil had selected six records, held under his arm as he flicked through the boxes, by the time the dust in the room caught up to his failing lungs. Turning to him, two books in her hands, May frowned – Phil had never been one for coughing or asthma, they had certainly been in dustier places than this before, but with the way his body was deteriorating, decades-old dust and swirling cigar smoke might not be what he needed.

Taking the records from him and holding onto his arm as he stood, May ushered him outside into the fresh air before turning back to find the cashier and pay.

* * *

“You ok?” she asked coming out of the store to find Phil leaning against a pillar to her left, his expression neutral as he stared off into the distance. His breathing had evened out, and he wasn’t coughing, so there was that.

Turning to her with a contented smile, Phil held out his right hand, entwining their fingers once more as he pushed back from the pillar and nodded to the end of the street he’d been staring down – the sun was riding low in the sky, not quite touching the horizon, but approaching it steadily, a blend of orange and pink seeping into the endless blue of day.

“Magical, huh?” May asked, the smile audible in her voice as he turned from the sunset and leaned down, pressing his lips to hers before leading her away from the shop, “home?” she asked as she fell into step with him, walking back towards the beach.

“Home,” Phil replied, the certainty and contentment he put into the word making her lean her shoulder against his as they walked, a soft smile on her face.

She would never tire of this – she’d once told her father that she just wanted to lead a normal life, away from SHIELD. Phil _was_ SHIELD, the agency started and finished with him, as far as she was concerned, but with him at her side, maybe she wouldn’t need the handgun in her purse. Maybe she could finally be happy.


	3. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had nothing to be nervous about.

Their cabin was small: one bedroom, one bathroom, one large living-room with a kitchenette on one side and large windows on each wall. The wooden paneling had once been blue, but had now faded to a light grey, the sea air and sun eating away at the colour over the years; a porch wrapped all the way around the building, steps leading onto the beach at the front and back; and the white curtains of the bedroom blew out in the breeze through the open window facing the ocean.

Truly, _magical_.

“I’ll take those,” there was amusement in Phil’s voice as he took the groceries from May before she could so much as step into the kitchen area.

“Come on,” she fought her ground, the nervousness which had enveloped them as they walked back to the cabin fading a little as she grinned, amusement in her own voice, “I’m not _that_ bad!”

“Not how I remember it,” Phil replied, moving the groceries to the counter top and opening drawers and cupboards, pulling out everything he’d need for dinner.

A raised eyebrow, laughter glinting in her eyes, was Melinda’s only response as she brushed passed him to the bag from the antique store, taking out the records he’d selected and looking through them.

“Dating yourself a little?” she asked as she saw how _old_ his selections were.

“Hey, they’re not old. They’re _classics_ ,” he shot back, a mischievous glint in his blue irises as the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkled with his grin, “not unlike us.”

“Speak for yourself,” May shot back, the soft sounds of the 70s Hits mix he’d selected filling the room, a few soft scratches from the used vinyl giving the sound a gravelly quality.

“Just because you don’t age,” he spoke with a grin as he approached her, his arms, blue shirt-sleeves rolled up his forearms, circling her waist as he drew her to him, “doesn’t mean you aren’t as _classic_ as I am—“

“You forget,” she cut him off, her hands coming to rest on his chest, mischief shining in her eyes as she looked up at him, amused, from behind her eyelashes, “operations didn’t wait for their recruits to age through college before bringing them in.”

“I was 23!” he objected, “that’s hardly ‘aged’”

She merely smirked at him, an eye brow raised.

They’d had this argument before, and the unspoken hilarity of it was clear in their banter – 17 year old Melinda May had flipped 23 year old Phil Coulson on his ass within 2 minutes of their first hand-to-hand class, and there was nothing his history degree could have done about it.

Kissing the infuriating smirk off her face was all he could really do in reply, so he bent down and captured her lips with his – she still smirked against his lips, and he only held her tighter.

It was silly that they’d been nervous about this. They’d known each other forever – 30 years to be precise – whatever layers recent events had added to their relationship, the base was the same: they were best friends, they teased each other, and bantered, and flirted, and it was as easy and effortless as it’d always been.

Somethings never changed.

Including the jolt in Coulson’s chest as May smirked at him and pushed him away back to the kitchen – that feeling of exhilaration at her flirty grin and dangerous eyes hadn’t changed in the 30 years he’d known her, it wasn’t about to change now.

“You promised me lasagna, Phil, so get to it,” she raised an eyebrow as he failed to turn back to the task at hand, continuing to stand where they’d been embracing.

“I feel old now,” his blue eyes shining with mirth, “I think I need help,” he was reaching out for her again.

Dodging his hand, May smirked, “I thought you were worried I’d burn the cabin down,” she shot back.

“Touché,” he conceded with a grin and a nod, watching as she picked up the two books she’d bought and carried them to the coffee table before leaning back onto the sofa, a book in her lap.

He could get used to this, he thought as he turned to prepare dinner, truly relaxed for the first time in a very long time.


	4. At Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this may, possibly, be venturing into low M territory. Just maybe. Or I may be paranoid.  
> Thanks to Plechka for letting me bounce ideas around and helping me make sense of what the hell these two wanted, you're a star!  
> Author suggestion: you may want Etta James' 'At Last' as background music for this.

After washing the dishes, insisting that she could at least do _that_ without putting the cabin at risk, May dried her hands on the dish towel hanging from one of the cabinets as Phil stood by the record player, changing records, two steaming cups of tea set on the table beside the turntable. Bypassing him and his indecisiveness, she picked one of the mugs up and moved to settle on the sofa in the corner of the room. “Thanks for the tea,” she spoke as she settled back, the book she’d started reading as he cooked perched on her knees.

Smiling back at her, Phil nodded. “Sorry about the Haig,” he spoke with his back to her, referencing his ‘retirement’ party, finally making a selection and placing the needle back on the vinyl.

May was about to assure him she’d saved some of the aged Scotch, and that they _would_ finally be sharing it, when his chosen record began to play. The look May shot him was both amused and just a touch smoldering – there was a reason he’d hesitated in his choice.

“Plans?” she asked with a smirk from behind her mug as the opening bars of Etta James’ ‘At Last’ scratched from the old record player, the gravely quality of the old vinyl giving the sound a warmth that filled the room.

“Honestly?” Phil asked as he, his own mug in hand, moved to sit beside her, a flush threatening to rise up his neck at her implication, “the only plan I had was being here,” he looked at her with a smile, “with you.”

May hummed as she smiled, her forehead briefly falling to his shoulder, nuzzling softly before he reached forward to put his mug down on the coffee table, reaching out for the second book she’d bought as she placed her own tea down beside his.

“This isn’t Ireland,” he smiled as he picked up the old, worn copy of Ulysses.

“No,” she conceded with a smile, “there aren’t really many opportunities for parasailing in Ireland,” he could hear the amusement in her tone, “but that doesn’t mean you should miss out on a good book.”

Sitting back against the sofa, Phil reached his right arm around her and pulled her to his side, kissing her temple softly, “thank you,” he breathed before inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

And, as if a switch had been flicked, time seemed to stop.

“Phil,” she whispered when his lips still hovered at her temple, his nose in her hair.

There it was again, the silly nervousness at finding themselves at the precipice of a line they had avoided crossing for so long.

“I—“ he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say, but as the tension rose around them, their eyes falling shut under the intensity of it, he felt the need to fill the silence.

Neither quite realizing it, they were moving, his lips falling to her forehead as she turned to him, their eyes slowly opening, gazes locking as shuddered breaths mixed in the short distance between them – every movement was agonizingly slow, and the intensity threatened to overwhelm them; Phil’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed against the hammering in his chest.

Then he let his lips fall to hers, leaning forward the fraction of a distance needed to seal the gap between them. Despite the almost palpable tension around them, their kiss was soft, the gentlest brush of lips, her neck tilting up marginally as his mouth moved over hers, her bottom lip coming to rest between his barely-parted lips.

“God, Melinda,” his voice was broken and barely audible against her lips. Opening her eyes, May’s breath caught in her throat at the darkened shade of blue staring back at her. “I—“

“I know,” her voice was just as hoarse, the words trailing into silence as his hand came up to caress her cheek.

He loved her. He wanted her. She knew.

As their lips hovered barely an inch from each other, they hesitated again, the briefest push and pull between them, her hand not quite touching his chest, his eyes locked on hers as they each waited for the other to take the step – to cross the line.

It was intoxicating: the scent of the low tide outside; the soft, gravely sounds of the scratched vinyl; the hammering of their pulses in their ears; the shuddered exhales between them; the soft feel of her cheek under his thumb.

Like a cocked gun; safety off; finger on the trigger. Coiled and ready to explode.

Neither knew who moved first – who finally shattered the boundary they had danced around for so long – but as their lips collided, the nervousness was gone. Where they’d hesitated only moments earlier, they dove into each other. Where their lips had wavered in the space between them, they crashed together now; pressing, seeking, demanding. Where his thumb had softly caressed her cheek before, his fingers laced in her hair, holding her to him.

As his free hand dropped the volume of Ulysses to the sofa and came to rest on her back, she felt a moan escape against his lips, her own hands scrambling for the fabric of his shirt, clenching it in tight fists as she drew him impossibly closer. Her book clattered from her lap, the aged pages folding in on themselves as she rose up, the need to be closer to him – to feel _more_ of him – consuming her until she was straddling his lap. His hand at her back held them chest to chest; the hand in her hair ensured the kiss never broke, even as she moved.

It wasn’t that they’d never been here before – years of undercover ops meant they had often found themselves in similar positions – but never before had he had the freedom to groan into her mouth as she ground into him. Never before had his hands moved to her hips, not to hold her away – to hide the reaction he really shouldn’t have to his partner – but to hold her closer; to let her know exactly what she did to him.

It was exhilarating, and were it not for the need for oxygen burning through his chest, he would never let go.

The exhale that left them both as their lips parted was part sigh part moan, and, their eyes meeting in the dim light of the room, they couldn’t help the laugh that escaped them at the intensity of it. It was a soft chuckle as she bent her head and nuzzled her forehead to his shoulder, turning to plant a soft kiss to where his pulse pounded in his neck; it was a tender laugh as he held her closer, his arms wrapping her into a full embrace, hands splayed on her back, thumb caressing her soft skin through the fabric of her shirt.

It was a laugh of relief, release, and genuine, unadulterated, happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that!  
> If you want to leave a comment, I'd love to hear what you thought; I'll also take cookies.


End file.
